The Blind Contessa's New Machine (16 page)

“We would pour oil on the grass and set it on fire,” Liza replied matter-of-factly.

Carolina let that picture flicker in her mind for a moment, a wave of giant butterflies rising out of low flames.

“And on the next page?” she said.

“It is a tree in a forest,” Liza said, looking down at a page Carolina knew contained a portrait of a butterfly’s bulb-eyed, monster’s face, drawn ten times its actual size, with the enormous patterns of its gold-and-red wings spread like expensive wallpaper behind it. “But I don’t see any creature. No, here. They are very small, covering the trunk like mildew. Some of them might be missing wings.”

“And on the next page?” Carolina asked, again.

“Are there ghosts in this house?” Carolina asked.

Pietro laughed. A fire roared in the salon grate, but one window was open to the spring afternoon. Scents of hyacinth, rain, and manure drifted through. Attracted by the fire’s crackle, Pietro had come to investigate, discovered his wife, and sat down with her on the couch that faced the wide mouth of the fireplace. He had caught both of her hands in one of his and was toying with her fingers on his leg.

“Maybe of the little dog I had to kill, after the horse kicked it in the head,” he said. “I only hit his foot the first time, and had to shoot him again.”

“I hear footsteps at night,” she said.

“The servants are always working,” he said.

“Not like this,” Carolina insisted. “They won’t answer when I speak to them.”

“Maybe you have caught our thief,” he said. “Someone has been stealing the lemon liqueur.”

“I don’t think so,” Carolina said.

Pietro loosed her hands so that he could gather her up in his arms. He pulled her into his lap and kissed her.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured. “Who cares if you can see?”

“He has sent you a dress,” Liza announced from the doorway of Carolina’s room.

“Pietro?” Carolina asked. She twisted on the seat at her dressing table, where she had been turning over pieces of her jewelry in her hands: the smooth enamel, the cool metal, the jagged peaks of the diamonds and the rough clusters of gems in their settings.

Without answering, Liza flung the gown down on the bed in a great swoon of lace and fabric.

Carolina rose and bent over to collect the dress. It was made of thin, stiff taffeta, the bodice reinforced with boning. Lace circled the low-cut neck and decorated the cap sleeves. The skirt fell away into numberless layers.

“It seems fine,” Carolina said. “What color is it?”

“Gold,” Liza answered. Then a short pause, long enough to repent of the truth—or a lie. “No, I am wrong. It is blue, with red lace.”

“That is enough, thank you,” Carolina said.

“You will see,” Pietro said. “With the music and the dancing, I think you will be happy.”

“It is a blue dress?” Carolina asked.

“It is a red dress,” he said. “Red like wine in a glass. But the lace is blue.”

Carolina frowned.

“Did you want a blue dress?” he asked. “That is easy enough to do. You can have ten of them if you want. But I don’t know why the color should matter to you.”

When she didn’t answer, he laughed at his own joke. In a crowd, others might have joined in out of pity for him, but they were the only two in her room.

As the sound of his laughter faded, he took his wife in his arms and stroked her head. “Ah, Carolina,” he said. “I never know what to do.”

The dance was hosted by the Rossi family, which owned one of the oldest villas in the valley. Every Rossi was quick to boast that this stone floor had been laid, or that thick wall had been raised, during the time of the Romans, but they never seemed to be in agreement about exactly which wall or floor. No one doubted the great age of their home, however, because it was such an unholy mess of architectural experiments. Great marble pillars in the classical style jutted into the sky, supporting nothing; beautiful stonework was slathered with cheap stucco; a small army of coy nymphs beckoned all the way up the drive, where a pair of forbidding tigers, twice as tall as any man, frowned down on the arriving guests.

Atop a hill at the back of their property was a Gothic chapel whose roof had now collapsed, and in this generation, the Rossis had developed the habit of hosting their parties in it. The setting made a spectacular dance floor, exposed to the stars but sheltered by the surviving walls. Torches lit to illuminate the dancers found out the fragments of stained glass that remained in the old windows and made them glow.

Halfway up the hundred stone steps that led to the ruined chapel, Carolina stumbled for the second time.

“All right,” Pietro said, steadying her with a laugh. “Maybe I should just carry you on my back.”

Carolina shook her head and started off again, treading recklessly up the uneven stairs, following the music into the darkness.

In a moment, his hand caught her arm again. “Slow down,” he said. “We are almost there.”

Carolina knew that already from the sound of the instruments and the volume of the laughter. She could smell burning oil, wine, and traces of a dozen perfumes, along with the thick scent of tulips, which must, she guessed, be massed by the hundreds at the entrance.

“Carolina!” Contessa Rossi exclaimed. “My darling! We have not seen you for a year!”

“It hasn’t been a year,” Carolina said, surrendering her hand to the old woman’s grasp.

Contessa Rossi’s cold, insistent hands seemed to check that all Carolina’s fingers were still intact, then released her. Carolina felt something pass before her face once, and again.

“She cannot even see that?” Contessa Rossi said to Pietro in amazement.

“My wife is not a toy for you to play with,” Pietro said curtly.

“I suppose she is no one’s toy but yours,” Contessa Rossi said with a sly laugh.

“This is a beautiful night,” Pietro said. “We are so grateful for your invitation.” He bowed briefly, and led Carolina in.

“You will be happy by the music?” Pietro asked, his voice raised slightly over the strains of the dance.

Carolina nodded.

“Here is a seat.” He pushed her back a few short steps until her calves pressed against a chair. Carolina sank into it. Its delicate arms were upholstered in brocade.

“What color is it?” she asked.

“What?” Pietro said, confused.

“The chair,” she said. “What color is it?”

“It is gold,” he said. “With some black threads.”

“Thank you,” Carolina said.

Similar chairs seemed to be arranged on either side of her, she discovered, but Pietro didn’t take either of them. “Would you like me to bring you anything?” he asked.

She shook her head.

Pietro had left her just steps from the dance floor, with the small band of musicians playing on her left. Carolina had not heard music since she went blind, and the effect was overwhelming. Her skin tingled from the violins. Her heart seemed to beat with each stroke of the cello, and the winds left her breathless. Forgetting herself, she closed her eyes. In her mind, the hill fell away below her feet and the musicians, the chapel walls, and the imagined dancers all rose gently into the black sky, as if suspended on glass in the heavens. Was this a dream, she wondered, or some other thing?

“Carolina!” A woman’s voice: one she’d heard before, but didn’t know instantly. “It’s Sophia. You haven’t forgotten me?”

Carolina opened her eyes to greet Turri’s wife, guessing at the location of Sophia’s face by her voice.

“Oh!” Sophia said.

Carolina smiled and held her gaze steady.

Sophia’s recovery was swift. “I had to come give you a compliment on your beautiful dress,” she said. “Don’t you love the new year’s fashion?”

“Thank you,” Carolina said. “But I’m afraid I didn’t choose it.”

“Oh, of course not,” Sophia said. “I’m sorry. How thoughtless.” A rustle of fine cloth and lace settled into the chair beside Carolina. Sophia took her hand. “How is it,” she asked with elaborate sympathy, “to dress without sight, not to know whether a thing flatters you, or what you look like?”